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1865–1945

À CLYMÈNE.

Arthur Symons

MYSTICAL strains unheard, A song without a word, Dearest, because thine eyes. Pale as the skies,

Because thy voice, remote As the far clouds that float Veiling for me the whole Heaven of the soul,

Because the stately scent Of thy swan's whiteness, blent With the white lily's bloom Of thy perfume,

Ah! because thy dear love, The music breathed above By angels halo-crowned, Odour and sound,

Hath, in my subtle heart, With some mysterious art Transposed thy harmony, So let it be!

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À CLYMÈNE. · Arthur Symons · Poetry Cove